


Unreliable Narrators

by redbrickrose



Category: Panic At The Disco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrickrose/pseuds/redbrickrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan Ross's first rule for narrating your own life is that you don't always have to be the focus.  You have to be the protagonist obviously, but not the focus.  Sometimes narrative distance is necessary for self-preservation.  The first rule is always self-preservation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unreliable Narrators

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://neverneverfic.livejournal.com/profile)[**neverneverfic**](http://neverneverfic.livejournal.com/) for the beta.  
> Originally posted on LJ 1/13/2008

Ryan Ross's first rule for narrating your own life is that you don't always have to be the focus. You have to be the protagonist obviously, but not the focus. Sometimes narrative distance is necessary for self-preservation. The first rule is always self-preservation.

Ryan Ross's second rule for narrating your own life is that you always, _always_ have to be aware of the roles that other people are playing. That's the only way that stories offer any protection at all.

It's served him well in the past, his particular talent for displacement and projection, but now he's happier than he's ever been in his life, and if he still feels, sometimes, like life's easier through a filter, when things are diluted by someone else's story (or when someone else is telling his), well, he's habituated.

Brendon, Ryan, Spencer and Keltie are sitting in a diner in Las Vegas; it's the same one they used to go to when Ryan didn't want to go home and Brendon couldn't. There's some discomfort and nostalgia here, in the cracking plastic of the seats and the way the florescent lights are too bright and abrasive, but really it's not that different from any diner in any of a hundred nameless towns and Keltie's presence skews the experience anyway, keeps the memories background, keeps the moment from sliding into deja vu.

Brendon's had five cups of coffee and he's thrumming with restless energy. He keeps forgetting himself and bouncing his leg where he's got it crossed over his other knee under the table. He already knocked Keltie's water over once, and every time he accidentally hits Spencer, Spencer elbows him. Spence doesn't mean it; it's never malicious or even really annoyed, though Ryan's mildly annoyed just watching. Spencer just knows that you have to keep Brendon under control, and the only way to do that is to be consistent.

(Everybody knows that, but Ryan has problems with consistency. It's too much like predictability, which is too much like trapped).

Ryan has had five cups of coffee and he's nauseous with the caffeine buzz that he always gets on an empty stomach - the kind of caffeine buzz that made him stop drinking Red Bull before shows because sometimes he can't tell the difference between buzz and nerves. It makes his heart beat too fast in his throat, and he's sure Keltie can feel it where her hand rests on his wrist against his pulse point.

Keltie has probably had five cups of coffee at least. Ryan wasn't counting (doesn't need to with Keltie, she can cut herself off) and you can't tell. She sits there demurely, but smiles at him a little wickedly every time he catches her eye, smiles meant for him to see, that Brendon and Spencer miss because Brendon vibrated into Spencer again and Spence punched him in the shoulder and now they're tussling over the paper airplane Brendon made out of the placemat. Keltie's watching them affectionately. Ryan slips his hand into hers, holding it tight and watching Brendon's quick, expressive grin with a knot tight under his breast bone, his heart beating so hard it leaves him weak.

\----

Brendon says: "Seriously, Ross. We have to record something." He hovers over Ryan's shoulder trying to see the notebook Ryan is shielding with his arm. Ryan leans back against the arm of the couch, shutting his notebook and trying to edge away from Brendon without a) noticeably edging away from Brendon or b) ending up underneath Brendon when Brendon climbs over the back of the couch and into Ryan's personal space. He falls off the couch in the end, landing awkwardly on his left arm and accidentally stabbing Brendon with his pen. Brendon huffs indignantly, then laughs at Ryan's flailing, his hand coming down to rest on Ryan's neck, playing absently with the hair at the base of Ryan's skull. Ryan shivers.

"You okay?" Brendon asks, amused, but he quiets at the look Ryan tosses over his shoulder, and moves his hand back hesitantly when Ryan goes stiff. When Ryan finally meets Brendon's eyes, Brendon looks hurt and confused. Ryan flushes hot, uncomfortable and guilty. He's good at avoidance, but he's never been good at discretion except, perhaps, comparatively. Brendon is focused on him now with real scrutiny, with all his manic energy tightened into one look.

Ryan mumbles, "Personal space, Jesus, Brendon," and leaves the room without looking at him.

\----

Ryan says, "We're fine, Spence." And Spencer says nothing. Ryan says, "no, really, everything's fine. Stop looking at me like that."

Spencer says, "that's why we scrapped a whole album."

No. They scrapped a whole album because none of them wanted to play the damn thing live. But, okay, Spencer is a little agitated about it. He'd been all for it at the time, but the slow progress on the new version bothers him. And yeah, it bothers Ryan too, but really, what were they supposed to do? Gauging the whole thing from Pete and Patrick's reactions that release would have been disastrous. Not that they said that. They just exchanged a lot of looks and used words like "interesting" and "different, " which sort of just confirmed every decision Ryan and the others had made before they played Pete and Patrick anything.

(Pete said: "Do you think maybe you're trying too hard?"

And Ryan said, "no."

And Pete said, "Hey, I get that you're happier now and I'm glad, really. But. Maybe you shouldn't worry so much about proving it?"

Ryan interrupted, "What are you talking about?"

"Just that you shouldn't force things."

"Does anyone ever know what you're talking about?" And that wasn't totally fair, and Ryan knew it, but sometimes Pete can be a dick and Ryan didn't want to deal with it.

"You know, sometimes getting along with you was easier when there was hero worship." Pete's voice was edged with annoyance and a little hurt; he never likes it when Ryan pretends he doesn't make sense. They've always made too much sense to each other.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said. He wasn't, really, but he didn't want to fight. He didn't really think they were fighting, but the conversation made him tense and, whatever it was they were doing, he didn't want to do it.

Pete said, too gently, "never mind," and then texted Ryan later with _sometimes i want everything all at once if u want 2 talk i kno about imbalances_. Ryan turned off his sidekick.)

A single by Christmas is not going to happen, and yeah, it's tense for a while. Ryan's stressed and uninspired and he does a lot of crossing shit out in his notebook. Brendon does a lot of disappearing with his guitar (sometimes while mumbling something about _I'm working on music, let me know when you're ready, oh my god, Ross,_ which is annoying, actually, because that's not how they do things). Spencer was doing a lot sitting around and watching knowingly, because Spencer always thinks he knows things. Of course, now Jon is back from Chicago because they're recording again (sort of), so Spencer and Jon do a lot of whispering. Apparently Jon also thinks he knows things. He only knows things because Spencer (and Brendon, maybe, sometimes) tells him, though, and Ryan's pretty sure that's cheating.

\----

They're in Spencer's new house sitting on Spencer's new couch. They have beer and they're getting high. A year ago, this would have been completely unanticipated.

Ryan wears vices like make-up, performs personas and overcomplicates himself. Sometimes he feels too changeable, but he's afraid of being figured out.

Jon's fucking _giggling_ and trying to shove Spencer off of him, but Spencer won't be moved. He's leaning against Jon's shoulder, gesturing widely with a bottle of Corona. "Never, never have I ever," he says, pauses, pretends to think, and Ryan, slumped on the couch behind them with Brendon's head in his lap, cuffs him on the back of the head.

"What, are you twelve?"

Spencer laughs and hums a little in the back of his throat. "Never, never have I ever had sex with another guy," he says, and smirks back over his shoulder at Ryan like he doesn't know what's going to happen when the other three roll their eyes and drink.

Brendon sits up and knocks his knee into Spencer's shoulder, making Spencer almost drop his beer.

"That's cheating, Spence," Brendon chastizes, all pretend indignation, but he's grinning wide and bright. He makes a grab for Spencer's beer and Spencer slaps his hand away, scrambling over to Jon's other side and using him as a shield.

Spencer holds the bottle out of Brendon's reach and says, "Get your own, Urie."

Brendon shakes his head dismissively, "Nah. That's way too much effort, " and slumps back on the couch against Ryan's shoulder.

The thing about living so much in each other's space that they can barely extricate themselves even when they want to is that there are very few surprises. It leaves Ryan simultaneously comforted and unsettled. They know each other's stories too well. Familiarity and proximity make them too willing to cross each other's lines looking for questions they don't know the answers to. Living in each other's heads like they do takes a lot of trust, and it's not about trusting the others not to hurt you; it's about trusting them not to mean to.

Jon snorts a laugh and says, "Never, never have I ever slept with Pete Wentz."

Ryan kicks him and says, "asshole," but he's laughing. Pete's not a sensitive subject; they were always too obvious for that. He's an oddly safe subject, actually, even if Ryan _is_ still waiting for the more incriminating photographic evidence to surface, and is sort of amazed that it hasn't.

Ryan says, "Never, never have I ever slept with the Dresden Dolls' entire road crew," and Brendon looks at him sharply, surprised. He's still smiling, but in a way that mostly just makes him look confused.

"You are so exaggerating, Ross. I did not."

"Oh, really?"

"I slept with, like, four people that entire tour." Brendon's looking at him a little oddly and Ryan shrugs. He might have been exaggerating slightly, but if it really was only four, then Brendon was even less discrete than Ryan gave him credit for. He's pretty sure he walked in on (or heard evidence of) that many at least.

Brendon likes being a rockstar. Like, really a lot. Mostly that's about the music, because it's Brendon and the music always comes first, but it's also about the perks and lots of experimentation and Ryan never really got it because sleeping with random strangers of any description means _talking_ to random strangers when you don't have to, which, _no._ But it's Brendon, so. He's never minded talking to anyone.

Ryan rolls his eyes and says, "yeah, okay. Whatever. I retract the question."

Brendon shakes his head, "Nope. If no one did it, the person who asks the question has to drink." He watches Ryan stubbornly until Ryan takes a sip of his own beer in concession.

Mollified, Brendon sinks back down on the couch until he's got his head on Ryan's leg again. "God, you're bony," he says and shifts around trying to get comfortable, ignoring Ryan's sigh. He finally settles, humming low in his throat, something Ryan doesn't recognize, tapping out the rhythm with his fingers where his hand is resting just above Ryan's knee.

"Never, never have I ever cheated on a girlfriend," Brendon says, and he's looking up at Ryan.

It's technically a true statement for Brendon, if only because he never really had one long enough. It was an obnoxious thing to say though, because Brendon doesn't always think, and it ends Spencer's impromptu game right there, when Jon glares and drinks. (It was _once_ and _Tom_ and an _accident_ and Cassie understood. And yeah, _on_ the tour bus was probably a bad plan, but they were really fucking drunk. Ryan knows Jon is tired of it coming up. He knows that because Jon has said so. Frequently).

"Aww, Jon, I wasn't talking about that," Brendon says and he reaches out and squeezes Jon's shoulder. Jon brushes him off, but he's kind of laughing again. He nods and rolls his eyes, but he's smiling at Brendon with exasperated affection like Brendon is the easiest person in the world to forgive, which has always sort of seemed to be true for everyone but Ryan.

Ryan's stomach twists, and he feels floaty, but not really in the good way anymore. He's not fucked up, really, but he does feel kind of off and he still hasn't gotten the hang of drinking and smoking at the same time.

"If I'm bony, you're heavy. Get off," he pushes at Brendon's shoulders a little, sliding over to the other side of the couch and Brendon mumbles something unintelligible and a little annoyed, but he obediently shifts so that his head is pillowed on the arm of the couch. His eyes are closed and he's probably falling asleep; he must be because the constant fidgeting has finally stopped. Ryan feels boneless and bizarrely nervous suddenly, sure he's going to say something idiotic if he says anything at all. Being stoned is nice when it takes the edge off, not so much when it makes him forget where the edge is.

Spencer gets up for more beer and Jon trails him into the kitchen, leaving Brendon and Ryan sprawled out on the couch. Ryan leans his head back against the cushion and listens to Brendon's breathing, watching the ceiling fan spin until he feels hypnotized before dozes off himself.

\----

When they actually end up recording, Ryan feels exponentially better. (It's not that he felt bad before; it's just that the pressure comes off and then he can breathe). He likes the new songs, and they did come easily enough when he stopped _trying_ so hard and just wrote. Pete wasn't wrong about having something to prove on the original second album, but they'd _all_ had something to prove. This is not that, but it's not _Fever_ either; he didn't have to rip himself open to get at this one, and once he figured that out, it worked. The new record is more upbeat, but it also feels more like _them_ than _Fever_ does, though he wouldn't say it that way in an interview. Pieces of it are deeply personal; it has to be or it wouldn't be honest, but he doesn't feel like he bled for it, and there's a difference. It wasn't such a violent catharsis. He doesn't want to ever need that again.

_Fever_ was half pain that still feels too sharp and raw and half impulsive posturing written practically overnight on a deadline. It was too much of him, not enough of them and he didn't want that this time. It was pre-Jon, and so it was never completely theirs anyway, not them as they are now. They're older and so is the music and it's all of them and they took their time and it shows. Ryan's not going to say any of that in an interview either because until it's done and out he's not going to do _anything_ that might jinx them. But, yeah, he feels good about it, loose and easy and relieved. The others must too. Spencer gets happier as recording goes on; Jon just gets sillier and he and Brendon bounce of off each other until they're calling breaks every half hour because someone is laughing too hard to play.

The last day of recording Brendon comes up behind Ryan and throws his arm over Ryan's shoulder, hanging off of him and pressing his forehead against Ryan's temple, "We did it again, Ross."

"Did you doubt us?" Ryan asks, and Brendon laughs.

"No. You did though; I could tell. This is going to be great. It's going to be bigger than _Fever_!"

"Oh yeah?" Brendon's enthusiasm is infectious, and Ryan's grinning too, sliding one arm around Brendon's waist and leaning in.

"I can feel it. They're going to love it. Come on, Ryan. We're so fucking cool." Brendon presses a kiss to Ryan's cheek, sloppy and overplayed, then runs across the room to drape himself over Jon in celebration. Ryan watches, feeling a little exposed after Brendon pulls away.

\----

When Keltie breaks up with him he doesn't really see it coming, but he should have.

He's in New York in her apartment and he hasn't seen her in almost two months. She's looking at the floor, out the window, everywhere but at him. It's the end of winter but it's still freezing. She's been trying to make do with a space heater and it's not working well, so they're both shivering and they're standing too far apart. It's winter and it's not even snowing; it's too cold to snow, and the light through the window is drab and gray, but Keltie still looks perfect in it, like there's sunlight on her when there isn't any anywhere else in the room. Ryan wonders how to put that in a song without it coming out cliched.

She always looks perfect and now is no exception. He knows all the ways she isn't perfect in any objective way. She snores sometimes; she hogs the bathroom. She's messier than he is and when she's visiting it only takes a day before he can't see the floor of whatever room she's sleeping in. He can't see the floor of her living room now. If she isn't working sometimes she doesn't shower for days.

He knows her imperfections, but not as well as he'd like to, not as well as he should, and that hurts in a dull-ache kind of way, that he doesn't - quite - know her habits by heart. He's pretty sure he used to. There was a time that he would know what she was going to do before she did it. He should always know her that well; he should have known about this.

She's pushing her hair back from her face distractedly. It falls in a frame around her face; her eyebrows are flawless arches. Her smile is tight and not real. (When she really smiles, it's wide and toothy. She snorts when she laughs unless she's self-consciously trying not to. He knows the little ways her guard slips, but he hasn't seen them in a while.)

"Ryan," she says and tucks her hair behind her ear. She's pretending to straighten the magazines on the coffee table and he wants to reach out and take her hands and make her look at him. "This isn't working anymore."

"Keltie," he starts, but she cuts him off.

"No. Ryan, please. Don't get mad at me. Listen. I haven't seen you in months. I haven't talked to you in weeks. When it's easier not to talk than it is to try to talk, don't you think something's wrong?"

"We've been busy. Once the album drops it'll be better. I thought we were fine."

"Once the album drops, you'll be touring and I'll still be traveling and that's not even the point. I still love you, okay? But I don't want 'fine.'"

It's true; "fine" shouldn't be a word he ever uses to describe them, and he flinches a little at how weak it sounds. She does look at him then, walls down, wide-eyed and honest, and he loves her a lot. He's not sure how to tell her what she's been to him; he never has been able to say it really; that's what the songs are for. It's not that Keltie saved him; it's nothing so trite as that. It's that he saved himself in large part because of her; that she was the first person to love him _after_ everything happened, and that sometimes he felt more real, more himself with her because she hadn't seen what shaped him. Other people defined him so specifically and it felt, sometimes, like she was the only one who could just let him be. Even Spencer couldn't do that. Spencer had seen too much.

What she offered him all along was the same thing she's offering him now, honesty laid bare. She's not wrong, but he misses her already.

He does reach out his hand to her then, and she takes it, tentatively, he says, "I do love you," pauses, and then "thank you," and she smiles at him, wide and open, but confused.

"For what?" He pulls her toward him, and she lets herself be pulled until they're close enough together that he can slip his arms around her.

"For everything," he murmurs into her hair. She nods and hugs him back.

\----

Spencer hangs back, watching him with a very Spencer expression that just says _I know you're not fine, but I'm waiting for you to talk to me._ Ryan can pretty much hear that in his head every time they're in the same room, but Spencer doesn't actually ask.

Jon gives him a lot of stoic and manly pats on the back (because Jon is the only member of the band who can even fake stoic and manly), and some concerned looks, but he doesn't really ask, which Ryan is kind of grateful for.

Brendon asks. Brendon stands too close and touches too much, and it's Brendon, so it's not all that weird and is probably just meant to be reassuring, but it's not reassuring really, so much as suffocating.

"Are you okay?" It's every day, repeatedly and hesitantly, like he's afraid Ryan really, really isn't. Ryan kind of wants to shake him or punch him, maybe, but instead just says, "yeah. I'm fine," and is kind of surprised that he means it most of the time; when he doesn't mean it, he snaps, "I'm _fine_, Jesus, Brendon." Brendon recoils slightly, but it never seems to bother him for long; it doesn't seem to stop him from asking again.

The rumors about the breakup start on the internet, and then the fans know and that's . . . always interesting. Ryan doesn't want to answer questions, but he doesn't want Keltie to have to, so he types up a response and posts it to Buzznet and that is the _only_ thing he is going to say publicly about this because it's no one's business but his. It freaks him out a little; he doesn't like personal statements outside of the music.

Brendon's never been able to sneak up on anyone, but Ryan's staring so intently at the computer that he doesn't even hear Brendon behind him until he feels Brendon's hand on his shoulder and Brendon sits down on the couch beside him, leaning in.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How are you?"

"Brendon," Ryan starts, in exasperation, but Brendon interrupts him

"Don't snap at me, Ross. I don't mean with Keltie. I mean with this." He gestures toward the computer with his chin. His warmth is solid against Ryan's side, more welcome than Ryan has allowed himself to admit before now.

"I hate it."

"I know you do."

"I'm okay, though," he says again.

"I am sorry," Brendon's voice sounds weird, kind of choked and indecisive, hesitant, "you know we all saw the difference when you were with her."

Ryan knocks his shoulder into Brendon's. "Yeah, well. It does suck, but . . . look . . . that doesn't mean . . . I'm not going to, I don't know, revert or something, if that's what you're worried about . . ." He trails off, not sure how to say _she did help me, but whatever changes you think you saw weren't temporary. I'm not back at square one just because she's gone. _ It's not that he was at square one before Keltie, even, but Ryan forgets about the way Brendon worries sometimes. It's not like the way Spencer worries, Spencer who was there through everything and knows from years of experience things that Brendon had to learn by trial and error, feel and instinct.

Brendon had to learn to sing the songs on _Fever_, had to voice everything Ryan couldn't himself. And there just weren't enough lines between them when that was going on, when all the boundaries were blurring and the whole process hurt. Brendon was spending most of his time frustrated and Ryan was spending all of his time feeling completely exposed. He always, always felt like he'd said too much, like there was too much vulnerability behind the anger and Brendon couldn't (wouldn't) stop poking and digging and trying to get it right. They aren't - quite - that entrenched in each other anymore, but that doesn't change the fact that Brendon had to _get Ryan right,_ which means he sometimes understands, in some very fundamental, intuitive ways, things that Ryan wishes no one understood.

Which means sometimes he worries a lot.

Brendon says, "Oh," and his voice still sounds kind of weird, but he leans in as Ryan does, leans his head against Ryan's shoulder and says, "if you need to talk . . ." and Ryan stiffens because okay, he really, really doesn't want to talk to Brendon about Keltie.

He just says, "thanks, but I'm fine." and then more gently, "really, Brendon. But thanks."

And Brendon stills and sits up, looking at Ryan like he's deciding something. Finally he just says, "okay." Ryan shifts a little, unsure what to do when Brendon's not readable, but when Brendon hugs him, tight and sudden, he relaxes into it and hugs back.

\----

Brendon has strange energy. It's a constant intensity, but it's not a lack of focus. He has an attention span. Sometimes when they're in the studio he gets so wrapped up that he forgets to eat. He can play guitar hero for eight hours straight. (He doesn't, anymore, and Ryan thinks he probably has Spencer to thank for that, but he _can_. Ryan's seen it happen). So Brendon is intense; he has to be active all the time, has to have his tireless energy channeled into _something_, but he isn't, actually, all that easy to distract.

Which is why Ryan's life gets more difficult when Brendon decides that the new tour needs to be even more gay than Nothing Rhymes with Circus.

Ryan says, "shouldn't we wait until the album is released before we worry about the tour?"

Brendon says, "hey, I was just asking."

Jon says, "it's Decaydance stage-gay chicken, Ryan. Brendon wants to win."

Spencer says, "Is this a real game? And if so, can we take a vote? Because I'm not sure I want to play stage-gay chicken against Cobra Starship. Gabe's kinda competitive."

Ryan says (to Spencer), "don't help" and (to Jon) "never say that in front of Pete" and (to Brendon) "can we talk about this later?"

Brendon smiles, seemingly unconcerned, and says, "sure. Whatever you want, Ross. I'm just saying, the fans love that shit. You know they do."

Ryan rolls his eyes and mumbles, "you loved that shit," under his breath. He's kidding, and he's expecting Brendon to joke back. He's expecting something lascivious and suggestive, maybe groping, but Brendon stiffens and doesn't respond. His smile tightens and flickers before it's back to full force.

"I want the fans to love the music," Ryan says faintly, overcorrecting for whatever made Brendon flinch. It's true but it's not the point; he wants them to love the music first, but he wants them to love the stage show too. Hell, he loves the stage shows, if he's honest. He's not as comfortable with the spotlight as Brendon is, but he likes the costumes and the theatrics, the performances and perspectives he can control. He likes the honesty of the songs mixed up in the stories the stage tells.

And in the stories it only implies. Ryan wrote the intro to "Lying." It's not like he wasn't paying attention.

Brendon started it, or it didn't start at all, really, so much as bleed over from how they were off stage, from their easy affection and Brendon's boundary issues, both of them singing into the same microphone, Brendon so close Ryan felt like he could breathe him in.

Brendon pushed because that's what Brendon does; he crowded up into Ryan's space, pressed up against Ryan's back, sang Ryan's words inches from Ryan's ear, leaving Ryan unbalanced and buzzing with awareness.

Ryan escalated it, but he diffused it at the same time, made it explicit and put it in writing so that it couldn't simmer below the surface anymore. He needed it scripted; he needed to know _what_ to expect as much when. He needed control over the narrative, even the implied one. It made sense anyway. The timing was so exact on The Nothing Rhymes with Circus Tour; it made more sense to stick to the script.

"What's this?" Brendon asked in the middle of the night, standing by the arm of the couch in the lounge and Ryan had pushed himself up against the cushions, from where he'd been chewing on his pen and staring into space. Brendon held up the pages Ryan had left in his bunk. He looked amused. Ryan moved hurriedly to give Brendon room to sit down.

"It's what "Lying" is about. I thought it needed something."

"Yeah, I got that," Brendon flung himself down on the couch next to Ryan, slumping across it, taking up more room that he should have been able to and studied the paper. "You wrote stage directions?"

Ryan shrugged and said, "obviously it needs stage directions, Brendon."

Brendon snorted and cleared his throat dramatically, holding the paper up in front of his face, "Your lover is running toward you, the wind is whipping through her lovely, lavish locks. Lavish, Ryan? Seriously?"

Ryan scowled. Brendon smirked, eyes bright with audacity. He moved, pinning Ryan by the shoulders back against the couch and leaning close to whisper in his ear, "you embrace for that perfect, passionate kiss . . ." His voice wasn't quite his stage voice; his eyes were somewhere between playful and sharp. Ryan laughed a little and pushed at him and Brendon went fairly easily, sinking back against the other side of the couch and studying Ryan, before saying, slowly, as though trying it out, "but this is not that dream."

Ryan swallowed and said, "it isn't," and looked away.

Brendon spent the tour pressing up too close, breathing low against Ryan's neck, murmuring "perfect, passionate kiss," like a dare. Because if Ryan edged forward even a little, if he hesitated before pulling away, Brendon would lean in, press his lips, dry and quick, to Ryan's cheek or the corner of his mouth. It was all in fun. They were all having fun and the fans loved it, and on the last night, when Brendon paused too long in Ryan's space, studied him too intently and cupped the back of his neck, fingers burning into Ryan's skin, Ryan thought, _what the hell._ He edged closer and nodded, watching Brendon's mouth. Brendon's fingers tightened as he leaned in. Ryan's breath caught, and a second later Brendon kissed his cheek, hard and extravagant, and they both backed away fast. Ryan was laughing, but breathing too hard, the old hum of unpredictability underneath his skin.

\----

Brendon does not let things go.

"Look. I just think, I don't know. Shouldn't we up the stakes a little bit?'

"It's a completely different record with a completely different feel. It's a completely different show. Is it really that important? And what do you mean, 'up the stakes'?"

"I didn't say it was important. It was a passing suggestion. Come on, Ryan. I'm not the one acting weird about this."

And, wow, that's not true. "Yeah, you are, actually."

"Okay, you're right. I'm the one harping on it; your behavior is totally normal. Hey, you were the one who was all 'let's script the homoerotic tension' last time."

Ryan ignores Brendon's choice of words, "And now I'm saying this show might not need to be as theatrical."

"Really?" Brendon is skeptical.

"Maybe. It'll be a different kind of theatrical."

Brendon sighs, "If you're really that against it, never mind. I'm done, okay?" Brendon sounds beyond exasperated, way more frustrated than the situation warrants, and he's staring at the wall past Ryan's shoulder like he really is pissed off. His arms are crossed over his chest and he's drumming his fingers against his upper arm, irregular and agitated. Ryan reaches out and puts his hand on Brendon's knee.

"Hey. I didn't say no. I just said we should wait to talk about it after the record drops. We don't even know what's going to happen.'

Brendon moves away from him and stands up, so that he's looking down at Ryan, arms still crossed.

"You didn't say no; you just didn't say anything," he shakes his head and mumbles under his breath, "You'd think I'd be used to that by now."

Ryan swallows hard against the sudden tightness in his throat. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Brendon shrugs, and he's looking past Ryan again, "Nothing, Ryan. I don't know. You figure it out." He walks out of the room leaving Ryan staring after him.

\----

Spencer says: "So. What did you do to Brendon?"

And Ryan says, "What the fuck?"

They're sitting on Ryan's new couch this time, eating frozen pizza. Spencer is waiting for Ryan to talk. Spencer has seemingly forgotten who he's dealing with.

Except that Spencer's actually more stubborn than Ryan, and Ryan breaks first.

"What makes you think I did something to Brendon?"

"He's acting weird."

"He's acting like Brendon."

"Right. Except even weirder."

"Why is that my fault?"

"You're acting weird too."

"I am not."

"Is this about Keltie?"

"No. What do you mean?"

Spencer sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. "You've been weird since Keltie. And it's okay, I mean, I get it. You were crazy about her and no one likes being dumped, but maybe we should talk about it."

"There's nothing to talk about. It was mutual. She's busy. I'm busy. We never saw each other and then we did and it just. Wasn't what it used to be."

"But you're okay."

"I'm, you know. Break ups suck."

"So, the thing with Brendon." Spencer is nothing if not determined. In this case he is also wrong. Mostly.

"Brendon has nothing to do with anything."

"Okay. Will you let me know when you stop pretending that's true?"

"If something had happened, don't you think I'd tell you?"

"I didn't say something happened. I said there was a thing."

"There's not. There's _still_ not."

"Okay," Spencer nods agreeably, like he's listening to everything Ryan says and thinks Ryan makes perfect sense. That means he doesn't believe a word of it and is snarking in his head. No one but Ryan would know that, but that's what it means. Which is annoying.

"Why are we talking about this?"

"It's just. I don't know; it feels like it used to." Spencer shrugs and looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He's expecting Ryan to argue or challenge him, but Ryan already knows how that conversation would go. The thing is, they used to have that conversation a lot.

There was awhile there, toward the beginning, when Brendon got a little out of control. It wasn't awful; nothing _happened_, but Ryan remembers dragging Brendon off The Academy Is . . . bus, away from William (and from Jon, because that was before, and it feels so long ago now, even though it really wasn't) Brendon petulant and resisting, "come on Ryan, we're young."

Usually, Brendon would disappear with William just after the show and he'd come back drunk and malleable and slip into Ryan's bunk, curl up against him smelling like cigarettes (pot) and beertequilarumwhiskey. Whatever. Nothing Ryan wanted to smell, but it wasn't so bad. Or, if Ryan waited up for him, Brendon would throw himself down on the couch, grabbing absently for Ryan's hand. And Ryan would take it and pet his hair. He'd listen to him ramble more than usual and try not to feel sick with memory.

They kissed exactly once. If it was going to happen, it should have happened before that, Ryan thought. It should have happened at the beginning when he was spending every night at Brendon's apartment because Brendon wanted the company and Ryan wanted to be anywhere but at home. It should have happened the night they were signed, when they spent the whole night curled up on Brendon's futon making plans in awed whispers, half convinced it couldn't really be happening, and half in love with Pete Wentz and the world and each other. It should have happened any number of ways, but Brendon sprawled against him in his bunk, slick and hot with sweat, well into the Truckstops and Statelines tour, wasn't one of them. Brendon whispered his name, and Ryan looked down as Brendon leaned up, catching Ryan by surprise. Everything about it was awkward and messy and Brendon tasted like tangy leftover booze and cigarettes. It made Ryan dizzy. Ryan let himself be kissed, a little stunned, until Brendon flicked his tongue against Ryan's lip, and then Ryan startled and pulled away, turning his back to Brendon and ignoring him until he fell asleep.

The next morning Brendon wandered into the kitchen an hour after Ryan was up and stood staring at the empty coffee pot.

"You'll have to make new," Ryan said, and Brendon sank down in the chair across from him with his head on his arm and groaned.

"I don't think I can work the coffee pot, Ross."

"That's so sad for you," Ryan said.

"Help?"

"No."

Brendon sat up, slumping back against the chair and called, "Spencer! Spencer, coffee!"

"He's not here," Ryan said, and looked up from his magazine. Brendon was staring at him pitifully. "You're pitiful."

"Yes. Pity me. Coffee, Ryan."

"Oh, _fine_."

Ryan made fresh coffee and when he handed the cup to Brendon, their fingers brushed and Brendon looked up at him, too seriously, eyes suddenly clear.

"Ryan," he started, but Ryan shook his head and backed away, retreating to the other side of the table.

"No, don't worry about it. You were drunk," he said, and held up his copy of Rolling Stone between them, blocking Brendon from view.

It might have gone on indefinitely if all he'd seen was Brendon sloppy and affectionately drunk. It unsettled him, but Brendon was an adult and nothing had _happened_ so, he - probably - could have continued to let it go. Then one night Brendon stumbled onto the bus around three, smelling as bad as he usually did, but more out of it, barely coherent, barely _responsive_, and oh, _fuck_ no. Ryan held his head when he threw up and then hauled him to his bunk. He woke up Brent and Spencer and they took turns waking Brendon up every hour to make sure they _could_ wake him up. Ryan knows what to do if you're afraid someone has alcohol poisoning.

When the sun came up he left the bus and didn't come back for the rest of the day.

When Ryan finally got back, the other three were sitting on the couch in the lounge. Spencer took one look at Ryan and then wordlessly grabbed Brent's arm and dragged him off the bus. Brendon looked half-dead, pale and washed out and sick, but he smiled hesitantly. "Hey, thanks for last night."

Ryan nodded tightly.

Brendon reached out for Ryan's hand, but Ryan jerked away, sitting down on the other side of the couch, but far enough away so that they weren't touching. Brendon looked at him warily, "I'm sorry, Ryan."

Part of Ryan was tempted to say "it's okay," but most of him was pretty much done, so what came out was, "God, Brendon, every night? What are you doing?"

Brendon shifted uncomfortably, "I said I was sorry. I didn't mean to. I just . . . I won't do it again."

"You better not," Ryan bit out.

"I won't," Brendon's voice got a little harder, indignant. He still looked like movement made him nauseous.

"Really? Because it's kind of been a pattern. You're with The Academy all the time . . ."

"And what? They're corrupting me? I thought you liked William. I know you like Jon."

Ryan shrugged, "I do. And I didn't say they were 'corrupting' you. I just said maybe you should cool it."

"I can take care of myself."

"Apparently not."

"Fuck you. I know what I can handle."

"Then why aren't you handling it?"

"Jesus, how is it even your business?"

Ryan was shocked into silence for a minute; the world kind of throbbed and contracted and he felt sick, punched in the gut, because Brendon _knew_. Brendon had spent months doing his best to crawl inside all of Ryan's defenses until Ryan felt wrecked and open and the idea that Brendon still didn't get it made everything kind of spin out of control. He wanted to say "because of last night, asshole" and "_you're_ my business," but that was too revealing suddenly, and in that moment he didn't really want to be revealed to Brendon anymore, maybe ever again. He did manage to choke out, "This band is my business!"

"And the fucking band is fine! Don't be a controlling ass, Ross."

"If you weren't such an insensitive dick, I wouldn't have to be." Ryan got up and stalked off the bus.

They hit some kind of wall that night and it was hard to say what changed exactly afterward, but it was difficult for awhile, with everything between them jagged and cracking. They were okay on stage, like they're always okay on stage. Everything else could be falling apart, and they'd still be in sync with each other while performing. Brendon would slide up next to Ryan and sing into his microphone, press their foreheads together and Ryan wouldn't even want to pull away, even if he didn't want to look at Brendon the rest of the time. Brendon would still deflect attention from Ryan if Ryan needed him to, and he could always tell when Ryan needed him to. (And Ryan, Ryan needed too much - needed so much more than he trusted, which was such an old problem he didn't even recognize it at the time).

When they were alone it was bad. There was too much palpable tension that started whenever they stepped off stage or away from the cameras. There wasn't enough Spencer or Brent could do.

But it got better. One night Brendon came in late and pushed back the curtain on Ryan's bunk, climbed in and grabbed Ryan's hands, pulling at him until Ryan sat up and looked at him. He was totally sober and he didn't smell like anything but tour bus and the butter from the popcorn Spencer had dumped over his head in the lounge when he'd decided Brendon was being a sore video-game winner.

"I'm sorry," he started.

"You said that already."

"No. No listen." Brendon's eyes were huge and earnest and scared and Ryan bit back his retort and looked.

"I'm _sorry_. I get it, okay? I promise, Ryan. No more. Not like that." He bit his lip and squeezed Ryan's hands and _waited_, until Ryan finally nodded and pulled one hand away to slip it behind Brendon's neck and tip their foreheads together.

"It's okay. Hey. It's okay." It wasn't, not totally, and Ryan wasn't sure he wanted to forgive him that easily, but Brendon meant it and that was all Ryan wanted in the first place.

Ryan suspected that Spencer got to Brendon because Spencer had known Ryan forever and usually stepped in before his self-destructive emo got too out of control. Spencer probably helped, but Ryan never asked and they _were_ okay after that. They were okay, but everything between them felt more fragile than before. The stage show stayed the same, until it escalated, but off stage Ryan and Brendon were more hesitant with each other, more reserved, and by then they had way bigger problems anyway. There were other sources of tension and - increasingly - it became RyanandBrendonandSpencer vs. Brent and everything was charged and tight and uncomfortable and breaking and then Brent was gone and Jon was there and the band dynamic was changed again.

And, if Brendon and Ryan were different at the beginning, if they were under each other's skin and half-way to starting something that never happened, well, there was (Pete and) Jac and Audrey and Brittany and Keltie and a string of Brendon's one night stands, and it didn't matter after awhile. The hyper-awareness of each other settled into familiarity. The cuddliness was just friendly affection. Nothing Rhymes with Circus was for show; the connection they'd always had on stage was about the bizarre forced intimacy that came from the combination of Ryan's words and Brendon's voice. Anything else faded to background noise. They missed their moment.

So Spencer can really, seriously shut up.

\----

The record drops and it's a hit and Pete is on the phone all the time (as in actually using the phone to talk rather than just text, which tells Ryan something right there) saying "I told you! What did I say? See, I _told_ you." And Ryan thinks it's as much a relief for Pete as it is for them. Pete has this thing where he feels responsible for Ryan. It's a little fucked up if you ask Ryan (except that no one does and he wouldn't actually admit that out loud if they did, but he thinks it sometimes), especially in hindsight and given everything. But Pete means well and, honestly, it's hardly the most fucked up relationship of Ryan's life, which. He doesn't know what that says, actually.

A lot of the songs are still stories. Only some of them are really autobiographical. Only one of them is about Keltie and sunlight and letting go, and Ryan's fine as long as he doesn't look at Brendon when Brendon's singing it.

Spencer tries to discuss it once, with "so I think we should talk about how things have been a little awkward lately."

And Ryan says, "I don't know what you're talking about" and "Please, Spence, shut up." And Spencer does shut up, but he doesn't shut up sincerely and he keeps looking at Ryan and thinking really loudly. Ryan can tell when he's being handled, damn it

Brendon wrote the music for it (of course). They were in the studio late one night because Ryan's a perfectionist and Brendon's obsessive. Ryan was rearranging lyrics in the bridge in a different song and Brendon was at the piano, playing softly, picking out chords and melodies and Ryan hadn't even tried to talk to him in an hour. It's no use when he gets focused like that; his energy swells up until it fills the whole room and he won't hear anything anyway.

Brendon stopped abruptly and Ryan started at the sudden silence, looking up to find Brendon chewing on his lower lip and staring at the piano like he was waiting for it to tell him something. He jerked his head up and met Ryan's eyes, beaming and motioned him over excitedly.

"Come here."

Ryan got up and wandered over by the piano, curiously. The songs were pretty much written; they were just tinkering with details.

"What?" he asked. Brendon smiled up at him, wide eyed and a little smug, vibrating with inspiration. When Brendon gets wrapped up in the music, it's hard not to get wrapped up with him. Ryan knows that Brendon can sometimes seem completely ridiculous - sometimes (often) he _is_ completely ridiculous - but it's usually on purpose, and his passion runs underneath all of that, threads through everything he does. It can be exhilarating to feel tapped into that. It can also be exhausting to be caught in it.

Ryan _needed_ Panic! to work when they started, and Spencer was right there with him, loved the band like he'd always loved Ryan and countered all of Ryan's insecurities with steely determination. But Brendon . . . Brendon _wanted_ it; he wanted it with an intensity completely separate from the ache of need and escape that was itching under Ryan's skin. Ryan found it thrilling and terrifying, Brendon's unapologetic daring, the way he wouldn't even let himself fear failure enough to doubt. It's still dizzying, when he thinks about it too much -- about all the things they didn't know and all the ways things could have gone wrong, what Brendon almost lost and what he was willing to give up. It would have been a lot to ask, if Brendon hadn't wanted this so badly and they'd ever had to ask at all. But they didn't, and things went amazingly right, and that look in Brendon's eyes, that charm that says _believe in me_, it got them a lot.

Brendon just shook his head and said, "No, come _here_," and accentuated the last word by pulling Ryan around the edge of the piano and down on the bench next to him so their shoulders were pressed so tightly together that Brendon barely had room to play, "now, listen." He launched into a full accompaniment. It was the same as the simple melody they'd had originally, but it was different too. He'd slowed it down, made it into a ballad, and it wasn't how Ryan had heard it in his head, but it was better, fuller and new. Brendon turned to Ryan when he was finished, smiling wide, jittering a little, unable to stay still once his focus dissipated. "Yeah?" He asked.

Ryan nodded, smiling back and squeezing Brendon's arm, "yeah. Definitely."

The new record feels more collaborative than _Fever_ did; Jon and Spencer are all over it, in the rhythms and cadences and the currents underneath. But it's still Ryan's words, Brendon's music at the core, and if it feels sometimes like he and Brendon are living in each other's head's again, that's why the feeling of not-quite-forgotten-_awareness_ is buzzing at the back of his mind. That's why he feels like he does when Brendon's looking at him.

\----

Brendon is always looking at him now. It's usually when he thinks Ryan isn't paying attention, but Ryan can feel it, like pressure starting on the back of his neck and sliding down his spine. They're all used to being watched by cameras and fans, but scrutiny is different when it comes from someone who knows what they're looking at. He expects it from Spencer, where it comes out of protectiveness, out of a lifetime of knowing each other inside out. Coming from Brendon it's always been harder to take; it's always felt like a risk, and Ryan feels more volatile and conspicuous than he has since the beginning.

Ryan's gotten better at interviews because he's learned how to control them. It's all about being perceived a certain way. He can say what he needs to say. He can be charming. He can talk to reporters without wanting to sink through the floor. He doesn't like it, though. He doesn't mind talking about the music, but it's never just that; that's never all they want. He doesn't like interviewers like the one sitting in front of them. She wants more than the persona. She's too eager to open up his conscious fictions. (When Ryan commented on it, Pete said, "That's fame," and shrugged like he didn't care. That's a lie because Pete cares about everything, but he doesn't care like Ryan does.)

The interviewer smiles. Her name is Kara or Karen. Her tone is (invasive) friendly and familiar.

Jon is ribbing on Spencer and Spencer is laughing and Ryan is watching them and Brendon is watching Ryan. Brendon's been quieter in interviews recently, content to let (Ryan) the others talk. Brendon can't fade into the background. It isn't possible; nothing about him is background. But he's sort of trying, and it's sort of weird.

KaraKaren leans forward and Ryan can feel the shift in her focus.

"Ryan, you've been very quiet about your personal life lately. I know you don't like talking about the details, but is it true that a lot of the new songs are about your relationship with Keltie Colleen?"

One on side of Ryan, Spencer's smile drops and he goes rigid. On Ryan's other side, Brendon's got his arm is stretched out on the couch behind Ryan's head and he slides it down the back of the couch, squeezing Ryan's shoulder. Ryan shifts forward, "A lot of my lyrics are very personal. I take inspiration from what's going on in my life. But some of them are just stories we're telling."

"Can you tell us which category the first single falls into?"

"No, I don't think so." Ryan keeps his voice even and doesn't look away from her.

She looks a little taken aback, but recovers quickly and turns to Brendon, "what about you, Brendon? There have been occasional rumors about a secret girlfriend. Is there any truth to those?"

Brendon shrugs and smiles widely, deceptively innocent and effortlessly charming; his arm is still heavy across Ryan's shoulders.

"Nah. I'm focused on the band at the moment."

\----

If they're sitting around at Spencer's or at Ryan's or in a bar somewhere, and Ryan looks up too quickly, Brendon will be watching him. If they're practicing, Brendon's attention is on Ryan even when they aren't looking at each other. Brendon hasn't touched Ryan on stage yet. They haven't started touring, and it would be just like Brendon to throw something in at the last moment, but there's nothing scripted; they're not even near each other for most of the show despite the fact they're switching off vocals more than they ever have. Brendon hasn't even brought it up, and that throws Ryan off balance because he was waiting for Brendon to push; nothing definitive ever happened and he can't bring it up now. It's too late to give in unprompted, and so he's jittery and on edge. Ryan's used to being pushed by Brendon, so he's used to pushing back but this isn't pushing; this is holding still, and he feels like he's overbalanced. The tension builds so gradually that he doesn't even realize it's there until he realizes it's oppressive and he's been waiting for it to break for weeks.

If you've thoroughly convinced yourself something is (or isn't) true, then you aren't really lying to yourself as long as no one else knows the difference. That's Ryan Ross's third rule for narrating your own life. However, narrating your own life requires a certain amount of omniscient self-awareness. So, then, the fact that Ryan is simultaneously consciously in love with Brendon and in denial about it isn't really a problem. The fact that he can now articulate this and is experiencing actual cognitive dissonance means that the denial piece has stopped working as well as it should and that, well, that could be a problem.

\----

They're practicing with the musicians they're going to take on tour. Brendon and Ryan have a screaming fight (that involves Brendon yelling and Ryan glaring at a lot - Ryan doesn't scream) about the arrangement on one of the songs that is Not About Keltie, Thanks. It's not that different from the way they always fight about the arrangements, but everything feels heightened and Ryan stalks out of practice and leans on his car, fists clenched, wishing he smoked cigarettes.

That night, Brendon fucks their violinist. He mentions it to Jon in a smirking whisper the next day while they're tuning and Ryan, who is eavesdropping, breaks a string on his guitar. Brendon startles and looks up at Ryan quickly, expression questioning and a little defiant. He shrugs, one hand held out, palm up. It looks like _I don't know_, but Ryan reads the challenge, _go on, you know you want to ask_. Brendon holds eye contact until Ryan looks away.

But he doesn't look away even when Ryan does and every time Ryan looks up through the rest of practice, Brendon's eyes are on him. He's never done well with his own words being sung _at_ him. It's affecting the others too. The violinist can barely play. Jon keeps shooting nervous glances at everyone, and Spencer, who never fumbles, drops his sticks three times. He finally calls a break and pinches Ryan's neck when he walks by him on his way out of the room, hissing, "fix this" in his ear.

Ryan and Brendon are alone in the room. Ryan's watching the door, his back to Brendon, who is at the piano playing "Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off," which they have not been practicing and have not talked about doing on this tour. When Ryan turns around, Brendon's finally looked away and he's humming under his breath. Ryan wants to strangle him a little bit. He feels uncertain and unprepared and uneasy, vaguely afraid that Brendon will answer any questions he asks. He walks over to the piano and leans against the side of it until Brendon stops and looks up at him.

Ryan says, "Brendon. What?"

Brendon opens his mouth, and closes it again, looking at Ryan for another long minute before he bites his lip and says, "nothing, I guess."

Ryan sighs, "Look . . ."

Brendon shakes his head, "Nothing. Really."

Ryan lets it go with both annoyance and relief. The rest of practice goes smoothly and Brendon doesn't do more than glance at Ryan. But nothing is fixed.

\----

On the wall in his bedroom Ryan has a picture of the band right after Jon joined. (Tucked in the frame behind it is a second picture of the band from right after they signed. He keeps it in the frame, but hidden. Sometimes it's still hard to look at them with Brent. There are things you know you can't keep, but that doesn't mean you don't miss them).

He also has a picture of himself and Keltie at his birthday party. They're wrapped around each other, wrapped up in each other, smiling for the camera. He calls her in the middle of the night and she answers, sleepy and concerned, "Ryan? Ryan, what is it? Is everything okay?"

"Sorry! Sorry, Keltie, I didn't realize what time it was. Go back to sleep. I just wanted to talk."

"No, I'm awake now. What is it?" Her voice deepens with affection, but there's that worry underneath, and he feels a little guilty.

"It's nothing. Just, I love you, you know that?"

"Ryan, we agreed . . ."

"No. No. I'm not asking you to get back together, just . . . we were good for each other, weren't we? We were good."

"We were good. We were really, really good. What's this about?"

"Nothing. I've just been thinking."

"About what?"

"About us. About what happens now."

"Is there someone? That would be okay, you know."

"What if it's someone I always cared about?"

There's a long pause, and then, "What do you mean?"

"Not like that, Keltie. Not like you're thinking. When it was you, it was always you. It was completely you. But this is . . . it's not new. And I'm not sure it's a good idea. I'm pretty sure it isn't. I don't know what to do. And it might fuck everything up. It kind of is already."

"Just tell me."

"Brendon."

Keltie sighs, "Oh, Ryan. I kind of. Yeah. I always thought, a little bit, that there was something like that there."

"There wasn't. It wasn't like that. I never would have."

"I know that. I always trusted you. Are you looking for my permission? You don't need it."

"No. Not permission. I just kind of wanted you to know. Is that weird?"

She pauses again, and he waits for her, trying to hear everything she might not be saying. When she speaks, her voice is gentle, but not too much so, not like she's coddling, because she's Keltie and she doesn't do that, "Yeah, a little, but I think I get it. Okay. Now I know. Does that help?"

"I don't know."

"Then I don't know what to tell you. But it's okay, whatever you do. It's okay. And you can talk to me if you need to."

"I'm sorry this is weird for you."

"It is, but don't be. It's no weirder for me than it is for you. I'd rather you tell me than not."

"Thanks. Go back to sleep, Keltie."

He feels better when he hangs up, but not really more sure of anything.

\----

Brendon turns twenty-one and they go out for his birthday. Brendon wears eyeliner and the royal purple of his shirt looks black in the dim light. Ryan wears a pinstripe suit and feels transitional. Brendon's still watching him, the way he's been watching him for weeks, speculatively, and it makes Ryan feel twitchy and overexposed. The apprehension (anticipation) coiled low and heavy in his stomach makes him nauseous and shaky. Everything in his awareness is pulled taut with building possibility and he's a little afraid of the snap.

His eyes connect with Brendon's from across the room and hold for a moment. He starts to motion Brendon over to him when some scene kid appears behind Brendon and touches his shoulder and the moment breaks, crashes. (The "kid" is a year younger than them, maybe two at the most, older than they were at the beginning. Ryan feels old sometimes, twenty-one and cynical before this even started). Brendon's turned and leaning in, so that Ryan is looking at both Brendon and the kid in profile. Their heads are together so that they can hear each other over the music. The kid is all in black, has multiple piercings and red hair. He's a little taller than Brendon, a little broader. He's laughing and Brendon's smiling, wide and easy and he's sliding his left arm around the kid's back and gesturing expansively with his right hand, edging closer, erasing personal space as his whole body gets into whatever story he's telling. They're walking toward the exit. Ryan turns back to the bar and orders another beer.

\----

Ryan bails early, and he leaves Jon, Spencer and Haley whispering in a corner. Spencer and Jon try to get him to stick around just a little longer. "Just until Brendon comes back. It's his _birthday_ asshole," Spencer says, looking tired and annoyed.

Ryan doesn't stay. Haley gives him a sympathetic look when he leaves because Haley also thinks she knows things. She probably does. She knows he's being an ass at least. He is being an ass. He's very aware of that, but there are times when self-preservation really has to take precedence. He knows that too. It's rule number one.

He's lost track of Brendon entirely, but Brendon probably left with the scene kid anyway and will, probably, be back. Brendon has an ease with people that Ryan finds exhausting. He gets comfortable too quickly. It seems unsafe.

Ryan doesn't know what he expected to happen tonight. Maybe nothing. They let things build to the breaking point before, and then he stepped back from the edge. But it felt different then. That was long nights and surface tension until he wanted to explode. This just feels like precipice. He might know what he wants (but not how long he'll want it). He might know what Brendon wants (but Brendon likes impulses and bad ideas). There are too many potential catastrophes, more ways for things to go wrong than ways for things to go right. There are moments when he wishes he could be more like Pete, who is exhilarated by disaster, unfazed by consequences until they happen, or like Brendon, who is reckless in a way that counts, who is brave even when he has as much to lose as he does to gain. Ryan likes his risks calculated. He's wary of revelation, of things he can't take back.

He's never totally comfortable going out in Las Vegas. He always feels too young, too much like he's seventeen again. That was a long time ago, but sometimes he realizes it wasn't as long ago as it feels. He didn't particularly enjoy being seventeen when he actually was, so he gets a little overwhelmed when the memories get too vivid. It's three-thirty in the morning, but he's still awake, curled up on the couch with his notebook, writing lyrics that are more emo than anything he's written in years and then scratching them out violently, when the knock comes at the door. He opens it, and he's not even surprised that Brendon's there, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. His eyeliner's smeared black around his eyes and his hair is mussed. His shirt actually looks dark purple now that he's in better light, and he's got the first couple buttons undone. Ryan wants to run his hand up Brendon's arm to see if the material's as soft as it looks. He crosses his arms tight over his chest to keep from reaching out.

"It's late. What are you doing here?' He tries to keep his voice noncommittal, unchallenging. That kind of neutrality usually works on Brendon, if only because he doesn't understand it. But tonight Brendon just shakes his head, bounces a little more, looks uncertain and younger than Ryan's seen him look in a long time. Ryan's chest clenches.

"Hey, can I come in?"

"Yeah, okay." It doesn't even occur to him to say no. Ryan moves aside, motioning Brendon into the room and Brendon brushes past him, sitting down on the couch and then immediately standing up again to pace to the other side of the room. Ryan stays standing, leaning back against the door with his arms folded across his chest, waiting. "What's going on?"

"Are you pissed at me?"

"What? No, why?"

"You missed cake."

Brendon sounds hurt and a little pissed off on top of that. Ryan shifts uncomfortably, "Oh, hey. Sorry. I was just tired; I couldn't find you, but I told Spence I was taking off. You looked kind of busy anyway."

Ryan meant to keep his voice casual, thought that he'd done a pretty good job, actually, but he must not have because Brendon's head shoots up at that and his eyes narrow and he stops. Stops pacing, stops bouncing, just stops.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that I saw you with that guy and you looked occupied. What?"

"I was _talking_, Ryan."

"Okay, whatever, I was wrong. Does it matter? I should have stuck around for the cake; I'm sorry."

"I don't care about cake and yeah. It matters." Brendon's still looking at him with that fucking _speculative_ look in his eyes and it still makes Ryan feel antsy and decipherable. Open. "Ryan?"

"What?" He sounds too nervous, even to himself. Fuck.

"What's going on?" Brendon sounds honestly curious, nervous himself. Ryan shakes his head. He's never been good at confrontation; he has to write things down to articulate them. He can't voice emotion. That's why Brendon gets on stage and does it for him.

"That's what I asked you. You're the one showing up here randomly in the middle of the night."

"Because something's going on with you!"

"Oh, no. You've been acting weird for _weeks_."

"You've been acting weird _forever_, and I'm pretty sick of it. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's _wrong_."

"You're not pissed?"

"_No_."

"Ryan?"

"_What_?"

"Would it have mattered if I _was_ 'occupied'?"

Ryan falters, fumbles, finally says "no, of course not," and it sounds faint and unconvincing even to his own ears and must to Brendon too because Brendon laughs, not unkindly, but almost hysterically, in exasperation, frustration, Ryan's not sure. Brendon drops his head in to his hands, rubs at his eyes, smearing eyeliner in streaks across his temples. It makes his eyes look even darker.

"What are we doing?" he asks, almost to himself.

Ryan takes a step forward, "What do you want, Brendon?"

"Me?" Brendon looks at him again, straight at him, so that Ryan has to look away. "What do _I_ want?" Brendon gestures helplessly and sits down on the couch again, "Nothing I can have. Nothing I have _ever_ been able to have, and you're the one who . . ." he trails off. Then, softer, "Don't make this about me. What do you want?"

And Ryan has to get out of there. Right then, immediately.

There's nowhere really to go, though, so he ends up walking through into his bedroom and standing in front of the window, dropping his head down against the glass. It's cool, which is nice. He hadn't realized how much he felt like he was overheating. He feels Brendon behind him within seconds. Too close. And he's too hot again, and Brendon's hands are on his shoulders, and fuck.

"What do you want?" Brendon asks again, even softer this time, voice right in Ryan's ear,

"The band," Ryan says.

"You've got that."

"I don't want to screw that up."

"Won't happen. What else?"

"I don't know."

"Really?"

Ryan shrugs and Brendon sighs, tightening his hands and digging his fingers into Ryan's shoulder blades. It's uncomfortable, too much, might leave bruises. Ryan suppresses an involuntary and not entirely unpleasant shudder at the thought. "Don't be a dick, Ross. Because I'm all in here. I'm all in. And I always fucking was, and if you didn't know that all along then you know it now. Come on. I've been waiting for you for a long time." Brendon's words come out in a rush, muffled, where he's got his head tipped down, forehead resting on Ryan's shoulder. "Say something," he whispers, a little desperate, when Ryan doesn't respond.

Ryan thinks _I've been terrified of this for a long time_ but he's well past the point where that even mattered. He didn't realize that until this moment, but it's true.

He just says, "_Brendon_," his voice cracking on the word and he reaches up to where Brendon's still gripping his shoulder and squeezes Brendon's hand, and that must be enough, it must, because Brendon huffs out a breath and says "Oh, thank God," and then his arms are around Ryan's waist and Ryan's sagging back against him. He's dizzy and uncertain and vaguely aware that something fucking huge just happened.

"You're shaking," Brendon whispers against his ear, breathless and disbelieving. Ryan is, but he didn't realize it, didn't know it was external, he attributed the spinning sensation to the anticipation knotting his stomach. He feels blurred and unfocused, like everything else is suddenly too sharp. He's hyper aware of Brendon's touch, which is intense, but suddenly more hesitant than Ryan needs.

Brendon's shaking too, irrepressible energy spilling over and out and he's trembling with it where he's pressed against Ryan's back. Ryan can't get enough touch suddenly, turning in Brendon's arms so that they're facing each other, pressed close, more sustained contact than he ever allows himself, and Brendon's face is buried against Ryan's neck. Ryan's arms are around him, one hand in Brendon's hair, the other fisted in his shirt so that he can _feel_ Brendon breathing unevenly. Ryan pulls back to actually look at Brendon, to try and read him by something other than the heat flaring between them. Brendon's so tactile, but Ryan isn't and he finds it distracting. He can't focus through the pressure of Brendon's proximity and he needs something else to go by, to hold on to. Brendon's eyes are dark, huge and blown open, everything Ryan can see and Ryan should be able to tell something from that, but he's too overwhelmed, beyond oversensitized now, and he either has to get as much distance between them as possible immediately, or get somehow closer, close enough that he can actually, finally stop thinking.

He says, "Hey, Brendon, hey," and his voice comes out low and jagged and he doesn't know what he even meant to say, but it doesn't matter because then Brendon kisses him before he can finish. It's awkward and tentative and softer than he expected, despite the fact they're pressed flush against each other, but this is new, or it seemingly so, the symbolic crossing of a line that barely existed to begin with. Brendon's hand tightens on Ryan's waist, slides under his shirt so that he's digging his fingers into Ryan's hipbone. The other comes up to the back of his neck. Brendon's touch on his bare skin is all it takes; it's electric and hot and Brendon's hauling Ryan against him, closer still and that shouldn't even be possible, but Ryan goes with it, half pulling and half letting himself be shoved over against the wall. Brendon's licking into his mouth and its still awkward, a little, still new, but Ryan doesn't have time to be unsure because its urgent now and messier and Brendon slides his thigh between Ryan's legs, grinding _up_ and Ryan is suddenly, blindingly, almost painfully hard and it doesn't matter that two minutes ago he would have thought he was too freaked out and apprehensive to even be turned on. He can feel Brendon's length against him through their jeans and they're both panting a little into the kiss, until Ryan rolls his hips, moving almost involuntarily, and Brendon breaks away, moaning shakily and burying his face in the crook of Ryan's neck again. Ryan can feel the puff of Brendon's breath against his skin and shivers, trying to will his heartbeat to slow, but it's no good. It was pounding before they started kissing, and he's still shaking, more now, rubbing his hands up and down Brendon's arms in an effort to calm them both.

"Brendon," he says, still not sure what he wants to say, how to finish any of the thoughts whirling around in his head. And Brendon whimpers a little, but doesn't say anything, just kisses Ryan's neck, up under his jawline. "Hey, come on . . ." Ryan starts again.

Brendon bites down on his earlobe, just enough to make Ryan gasp, and whispers, "you come on, Ross, do you really want to keep talking right now?" And no, not really, actually. Talking wasn't his idea to begin with. He gives up and gives in, shakes his head and lets Brendon pull him off the wall and turn him around, back him up against the bed until they fall over on it, Ryan underneath with Brendon's weight hot and welcome on top of him. They're kissing again, hands everywhere and God, still not close enough together. Brendon's mumbling things Ryan can't even understand, into the kisses, against his skin. Brendon can't ever be quiet or still, but it leaves Ryan vibrating and unfocused and frantic himself, fumbling with the buttons on Brendon's shirt. Brendon laughs at him a little, and rolls off of him, nudging Ryan further up onto the bed, so they aren't halfway hanging off of it, grinding up against each other. Ryan sits up enough to pull his own shirt off, and Brendon's is somehow already gone, he pulls Brendon back down on top of him and they're skin to skin, which is better, but also . . . not worse, not at all, but overwhelming still and almost too much, too soon, too intense, like everything about this entire night.

He lets his hands skate over Brendon's back, up into his hair and every place they're touching is charged and sparking. Ryan's uncomfortably hard, still confined in his jeans, and Brendon's grinding down heavily, bucking against him, neither one of them willing to separate at all.

Ryan twists his hips, moans, feels the slide of Brendon's cock against his through the layer of clothing and even that's too much. This is going to be over fast, he can already tell. Their movements are erratic and desperate and Ryan hasn't felt like this, so young, so new, so scared in a long time. Brendon's sucking bruises into his neck, whimpering and Ryan's got his hands on Brendon's hips, sliding them down the back of his pants and gripping Brendon's ass, pulling him down hard and twisting up and Brendon lets out a low moan, and shudders and stills.

Ryan pauses, still shaking and panting and not sure what just happened. "Did you just?" he asks and he can feel Brendon nod and moan, where he's got his face nuzzled into Ryan's neck. Everything slows and threatens to sharpen again and Ryan takes a deep breath, moving his hand up to Brendon's head to stroke his hair and murmuring "it's okay" against Brendon's obvious embarrassment and trying to stop _thinking_ so damn much. He's still so turned on he aches. He's _close_, if it hadn't been Brendon, it would have been him, he's close, but he _needs_ and doesn't care so much about Brendon's recovery time. "Brendon," he whispers urgently, undulating a little.

"Okay, okay," Brendon breathes, and he levers himself up, falling onto his side so they're lying next to each other. Then they're kissing again, and Brendon can get his hand on the button of Ryan's pants, he fumbles them open and curls his fingers around Ryan's cock and pumps once, slowly, then faster and Ryan is shaking and whimpering and all of his consciousness is centered in where Brendon's touching him, every nerve ending on his body feels raw and overstimulated and he wants it done, actually. He's fucking into Brendon's hand, but it's not enough, not quite, not there, not yet and Brendon's mouth is right against his ear, murmuring, "Come _on_, Ross." He tightens his hand, jerks faster, harder and Ryan needs that, to be pushed through it and that's almost enough, almost, but then Brendon pulls back, looks him right in the eye and says "Ryan," his voice rough and low and out of context, says Ryan's name like he's always sung Ryan's words, and that is _it_. Ryan's coming for what feels like forever, spilling wet and sticky over Brendon's hand and they're kissing again, and Ryan doesn't want to stop kissing, _maybe ever_, he thinks, his brain hazy from the afterglow, and then he really doesn't want to stop kissing because the second they do then reality comes back and he's not sure what happens then, isn't sure he wants to be sure. Just because something's inevitable doesn't necessarily mean it's a good idea.

But it's not his choice, in the end, and Brendon breaks the kiss and groans, rolling off of Ryan and dramatically flinging one arm over his eyes. "Oh, God. I promise that I usually have more stamina than that." Ryan laughs and relaxes a bit, the tension he was expecting evaporating before it really has a chance to coalesce.

"It's okay."

"Seriously."

"Your sex god reputation is safe with me."

Ryan grins and Brendon looks at him sideways, "So, are you gonna give me a chance to prove the stamina?" He looks down, suddenly awkward, "it's just . . . it was you, you know?"

Ryan's heart speeds up again, and he bites his lip, not answering. Then Brendon's forcing Ryan's head around, looking at him again, eyes huge and too serious and he says, "Stop panicking. I really can't, okay?"

Ryan closes his eyes, breathes out. He pulls his pants off the rest of the way and lets Brendon cuddle up against him so that his head's on Ryan's chest. He still feels hot and sensitive, but it's pleasant now, a low flicker underneath his skin.

"I'm not panicking," Ryan says, and he's actually kind of surprised that it's true, because he sort of expected to be freaking right the fuck out, "and I do know. Okay? I do." Brendon's heart is beating too fast, still. Ryan can feel it against his chest and against his wrist where it rests against Brendon's neck because he's got one hand tangled in Brendon's hair. Brendon's smiling, though. He can feel that too.

"Really?"

"Yeah, asshole. Really."

"I knew it."

Ryan laughs and tightens his arm around Brendon, and then Brendon laughs too, happy, relieved, and buries his face in Ryan's shoulder.

Brendon falls asleep quickly, but Ryan doesn't. He lies in the dark and stares at the ceiling, listening to Brendon breathe and letting the world slow back down around him.


End file.
